


A Reason to Celebrate

by keeptogethernow



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, But it always becomes sad, Gen, Happy Ending, I promise, I tried to write happy, I'm Sorry, Short & Sweet, Short Chapters, Tim Drake is Robin, brief cameos by others, mostly Tim and Dick, mostly canon, ocs for plot furthing purposes, really sorry, with a little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptogethernow/pseuds/keeptogethernow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim's had a lot of birthdays (well, a lot for him) but he's never really GOT why people have parties for them. Dick plans on changing that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Does it REALLY Matter?

**Author's Note:**

> Tim's birthday (according to canon) was last week. I planned on posting it that day, but it didn't happen. So, better late than never, right?

Tim _knew_ he shouldn’t have mentioned his upcoming birthday to Dick. And he _definitely_ shouldn’t have admitted to not having a birthday party planned. And he _never_ should have further admitted to never having _had_ a birthday party before. He’s not sure why his “older brother” is making such a big deal out of it though. You’d think it was a federal crime or something.

Besides, he’d totally been under the influence and coerced into those confessions. By which he meant that he was tired, Dick had gotten him some food and that wasn’t helping him stay awake, and he’d been bribed…or maybe that was blackmailed, with coffee, if he “answered honestly.” Which was why he was now sitting on the edge of a roof, trying to figure out why they were having the conversation at all.

“You seriously mean that you’ve _never_ had a party? _Ever?”_ Dick asks incredulously.

Tim frowns down at his coffee. “You know that this is really crappy coffee and totally not worth my cooperation, right?”

“Tim!” Dick nudges him. “You _said_ you’d answer if I gave you the coffee. You never said it had to be good. So _answer_!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Tim mutters grumpily. “And, for the last time, _no. I have never had a birthday party._ I still don’t get what your problem is with this.”

Dick looks horrified, as though Tim had just admitted to torturing small animals or something.

“Um, because it’s _your birthday?_ And that only comes once a year? Dude,” Dick says, turning to face him, “It’s not like your parents don’t have the money for it. So…why didn’t they ever celebrate the birth of their _only child?”_

Tim blinks slowly, sorting through the loaded questions.

“Um…” he says after thinking it through. “They’re _really_ busy. And it’s not like a little kid _needs_ a birthday party. They didn’t want to waste money, it’s silly. I mean, little kids don’t even _remember_ their birthdays from year to year.”

_He’s four-years-old, and he’s blinking up at his mother, who had woken him up and made him come downstairs. It’s really early, and he’s tired and confused. She’s gesturing at a small pile of boxes stacked neatly on the dining room table._

_“See?” she says happily. “This is so much more efficient! You have a present for your birthday next week, and one for Christmas, and then another for next year’s birthday. That way we won’t have to interrupt our trip!”_

_He stares at the boxes and wonders if all parents do this for their children. His nanny always seems sort of mad when he asks about his parents, so he’s scared to ask her. His mother is still smiling expectantly, clearly pleased with herself, but he’s not happy, and that smile is fading fast._

_“I-it’s good, Mother.” He says, trying to stop the smile from fading. “V-very efficient.”_

_It doesn’t work, and the stuttering infuriates her, as usual. He stands and stares down at his bare feet as she gives him a lecture on proper speech and enunciation, then follows with “What did I do to have such an ungrateful child?!?”_

_He stands silently as she storms out, as he hears her and his father dragging their luggage to the door, as they shut it without a word, as they drive away. He doesn’t move, even when they’re gone and too far away to see if he does._

_They don’t come back for his next birthday, and they miss Christmas too—delayed by the weather, they say when asked. His mother doesn’t put out presents for him before they leave again. In fact, they don’t mention it again. He doesn’t know if other parents do that, but he thinks they remember to leave presents for their children._

Tim shakes his head to wake up. He’s almost wondering if Dick put something in his coffee—he’s really tired and his head keeps getting muddled with so many thoughts and words. He yawns, notices Dick’s smirk, and punches him in the arm.

“Did you _drug me?”_

“Um…no. Thought about it, but no.” He protests, holding his hands up innocently, “You’re so suspicious. And that didn’t answer my question, Timmy. I mean, yeah, they’re busy, and yeah, little kids might not remember their birthdays. But that doesn’t matter. Parents do it anyway, because it makes the kids happy. They’re not _that_ busy!”

Tim looks back at his cup and feels the prick of tears forming. He breathes slowly, regulating his emotions. Once he’s in control, he answers.

“They’re really busy and I’m old enough to understand that. I mean, I’ll be _fourteen_ this year. I don’t need a party. It’s cool.”

_He’s in first grade, and one of his classmates is having a party. Tim even got an invitation, but he’s not sure how he’ll get to their house—the buses don’t run there, and he can’t afford a taxi right now. He’s probably not going to make it, but he still listens with interest as the others chatter._

_“—it’s gonna be big, because I’ll be seven! We’re having cake and my Mommy says that there’s going to be a special ‘uprise guest, if I’m real good.”_

_Tim wonders if he’s hearing right—Billy’s parents are going to_ be at the party? _He’s always thought that parents just sent a card or arranged it with the staff. His parents certainly never show up for his birthday._

_He listens as they discuss presents, and wonders why they get more than one. He’s never gotten more than one present. Maybe it’s because he’s so ungrateful and hard to please?_

_When he sees his mother and father again (six months later), he asks them if he can have cake for his next birthday. Well, technically, he asks for a party—he wants to ask his classmates over, he wants to have a cake and listen to them sing “happy birthday” (“like they did for Jenny in class last month, Mother.”) and he wants his mother and father to be there. He knows he should have stopped at cake, because he could already see the expressions changing on their faces._

_“Timothy,” his mother says coolly. “You know that we’re scheduled to leave for the Peru expedition tomorrow evening. There’s no way we can possibly—“_

_“Maybe Mrs. Walters could arrange it!” he interrupts, suddenly desperate._

_“Mrs. Walters is busy with her_ paid _duties.” His mother says, and he hears the disappointment and annoyance in her voice. “Besides, you’re_ far _too old for such silly things._ Be. Reasonable.”

 _He apologizes and stares at the floor while she talks about manners and how immature that was. She goes on until Father reminds her that they’re due at a dinner, so she has to cut it short, leaving him with “I expect more from you, Timothy. Don’t be such a_ child.”

Tim jerks awake again, and he knows there’s no way he’s going to finish the patrol. He can barely keep his eyes open now. He hears Dick vaguely—something about calling it a night, and he tries to protest, but it’s futile. As he fades out again, he hears Dick’s voice near his ear.

“You’re a kid, Tim. Your parents should be here. Birthdays are important, and they should want to be there to witness them.” He pauses, then whispers “I’m sorry, buddy.”

But Tim could be dreaming about that part. He’s dreamed stuff like that before. He knows it’s probably just that again.

Tim spends the next week avoiding Dick. He knows how the man works, and there’s no way he’ll drop the subject. He’s like a dog with a new toy—he has to mess with it, and Tim would really rather not think about it.

Dick just doesn’t get that Tim’s really not upset that his parents are gone ( _really),_ and he definitely doesn’t get that Tim is really not important enough to warrant a party like that. Besides, he’s practically grown up and he doesn’t need any attention, not even on his birthday.

He wants to complain, but he’s not sure who he’d talk to. Nobody ever seems to get why he doesn’t have birthday parties. But at least they drop it, unlike Dick.

He makes it almost a full week, before he’s ambushed outside his parents’ downtown residence. Dick’s sitting on the front stoop, legs stretched out like he’s been there for a while. Tim almost debates going back inside, but there’s nothing to eat there, and he’s not about to let Dick keep him from going grocery shopping.

“You know that you look like a creep, right?” he says, kicking his brother’s legs out of the way. “I should call the cops.”

“I _am_ the cops.” Dick replies cheekily. “So…that’d be self-defeating. Where’re you going?”

“Shopping. You can’t come.”

“Aw, c’mon, Timmy!” Dick practically whines. “Don’t be that way. Besides, you don’t wanna walk all the way there. I’ll give you a lift.”

It’s a convincing offer, and Tim relents. Thankfully, Dick brought his bike, so conversation is pointless until they arrive. Tim hasn’t relaxed though, because he knows what’s coming. It literally takes less than two minutes after they’ve gotten to the store before Dick starts again.

“So, Tim,” he says, pseudo-casually. “Your parents gonna be home next week?”

Tim grits his teeth. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Huh. Got plans for the big day?”

“No.”         

“Did you mention your birthday to Alfie?” Dick asks curiously. “Because he’d definitely make sure that you got _something._ ”

“No, I didn’t. It’s cool. I’m not bugging Alfred about something stupid.” Tim’s slowly becoming angrier and angrier. “Would you just. Drop. It?”

Dick must read the anger there, because he stops for the rest of the trip. He talks about other things, and Tim’s grateful for the reprieve. He doesn’t really want to fight with Dick about something so dumb.

It’s not until they’re back at Tim’s house that Dick mentions the subject again.

“Hey, Tim? You know I didn’t mean anything by it, right? I’m sorry for pissing you off, man. I guess I just got carried away.”

Tim nods in acceptance. “It’s fine. Can we please stop talking about it though?”

Dick agrees half-heartedly. But he doesn’t bring it up again, and Tim’s so grateful for that. He can feel the man’s disapproval though, both for the whole birthday thing and for the fact that Tim’s staying alone. Tim doesn’t get that either.

He’s always been alone, and he’s not sure why Dick and Bruce and Alfred get so mad about it. He wonders how much madder they’d be if they knew how long and often he was left on his own, if they knew how he got around town as a kid, or if they ever realized that he wasn’t actually sure if his parents even _remembered_ his birthday—they called and sent a card, but these events were unrelated and came months too early or late.

He wonders if they’d be mad about the way he used to pretend that he was a part of their family for years, pretending that he was there for Thanksgiving and Christmas, instead of alone at his parents’ house, watching from the window.

_He’s turning twelve, and staying at the country home, the one across from Wayne manor. He loves staying here, because he can watch the comings and goings in the other house. The house downtown is pretty much isolated, surrounded by identical houses with high fences and silent, often-absent inhabitants._

_Today, he’s fascinated with watching the party going on. It’s Jason’s birthday, he gathers from observations. There are many people coming—both adults and kids. They bring presents, and seem so happy to be there. Jason looks happy too, and Tim wonders if he knows how special having a birthday party is._

_Tim watches the whole day, from the moment guests start arriving until the sun goes down and the only people left are the Wayne family. He watches as Dick and Jason work to clean up the wrapping paper—they’re getting along and keep making a bigger mess by throwing paper at each other._

_Mr. Wayne’s watching from the door, unnoticed by the two. He seems happy to watch quietly, and Tim wonders what the difference is in his expression. It’s softer than his parents’ have ever been, and Tim wants to know how to encourage that quality in his parents—he craves having somebody look at him like that—like he’s not a disappointment, an inconvenience, a bother._

_He watches the whole thing, and he wonders why everybody makes such a big deal of birthdays. Does it really matter if you note the day that you were born? He’s pretty sure that it doesn’t matter, and he knows that you probably don’t wanna celebrate births unless you wanted them to occur. That’s probably part of why his parents don’t worry about it—Tim’s not something they wanted, he’s just there and not good enough yet, so why would they celebrate that?_

Patrol is rough the night before his birthday. There’s a robbery that turns nasty when Batman and Robin turn up, then there’s two muggings, an attempted rape, and a drug deal. The drug deal is the hardest part of the night—Robin’s worn out from the previous events, Nightwing’s tired and he sprained his wrist during one of the mugging attempts, and Batman took a bullet at the beginning of the night and hasn’t stopped.

They counted ten men, all armed, and then they dropped down, silent and deadly. But they hadn’t counted right, and there are more men who they’d missed. The fight quickly turns in the favor of the dealers. Batman ends up across the room, working to disarm the leaders, while Nightwing and Robin take out the rest.

Robin has just taken a man waving a Kalashnikov out, when he sees two of the men take off down a hallway. He looks around to see if the others noticed, but they’re occupied. He bites his lip, indecisive, then runs to follow them.

He sees them running down the hall, and for a second, he feels the thrill that comes with chasing down a suspect. Then he rounds the corner after them, and realizes exactly how stupid he just was. The men are not alone—there are six or seven thugs in there, all armed, and all looking towards Robin when he emerges. There’s also a truck of some sort idling behind them, doors open and waiting.

Robin has enough time to realize that he’s just ran straight into a very obvious trap, and he quickly reaches for his comm, trying to signal Nightwing or Batman. But he doesn’t quite get that far—there’s a noise to his side and he whirls to see what it is. Then there’s a blow to the back of his head, and the world goes dark.


	2. Happy Fourteenth, Here's a Concusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim STILL doesn't get it, but it turns out that he doesn't need to.

_Tim’s about to turn eight, and he’s sick. It started as a cold, probably gotten from his tendencies to wander about at night, rain or shine. He’d taken some decongestants and drank a lot of water. But now he can’t seem to catch his breath and it hurts to breathe deeper._

_He wishes that Mrs. Douglas (Mrs. Walters was fired about a year ago now) would come soon, so that way he won’t have to make food for the day. It’s too much effort to get to the kitchen and cook, so he’s skipped the last four meals in favor of sleeping in the nest he’s made with his blankets._

_Tim’s not hungry right now, but he is a little scared—he can’t breathe and nobody will be there to check up on the house until next Monday. He’s scared by the fact that if he stops breathing, nobody will know for days._

_Tim naps in and out all day and that night. When he wakes up, it’s his birthday and he still can’t breathe. His body shakes with the effort it takes for him to sit up and get a drink of water. He made it all the way downstairs, but now he’s exhausted and can’t try to make it back up to bed._

_His gaze wanders before landing on the telephone. He wishes so much for his parents to be home—they may never have helped him much when he was sick, but their presence will ensure that the staff is on hand, and somebody could make him some soup then and someone would be there to check on him._

_He doesn’t remember grabbing the phone or dialing the number. He’s not even aware of the choice he made until the phone starts ringing. Then he immediately regrets the decision, even as his mother’s voice comes on, demanding and sharp, as always._

_“Yes, what is it?”_

_He tries to answer, but ends up in a coughing fit instead. Finally, he wheezes out “Mother?”_

_Her voice loses none of its edge. “What is it, Timothy? You realize that this call is costing a fortune every second, correct?”_

_“Y-yes, I’m s-sorry.” He can’t seem to stop wheezing and shaking. “It’s just…I-I missed…um, well, it’s—it’s my b-birthday t-today…”_

_Another fit of coughing ends the sentence, and it punctuated only by his mother’s disapproving silence. Finally she sighs._

_“I thought we’d agreed that you were too old for this, didn’t we?” she says. “I’m afraid we’re busy and there’s no way for us to get home soon. And why are you being so difficult to hear?”_

_He wants to say that he’s sick, that he wants somebody to stay with him, that he wants his parents—or rather, he wants the parents that all the other kids seem to have, the ones on the T.V. who rush home when their children aren’t well. But he can’t get the words out in between choking coughs._

_“You should work on being more eloquent,” his mother is saying. “Honestly, it’s a skill that would serve you well. And you should stop being so childish, honestly, Timothy! This is ridiculous, you are acting like an immature child. There’s no reason for us to continue this discussion further. Your father and I will be back on the twentieth and we can talk then.”_

_And she hangs up, leaving him standing there, phone in his lifeless hand, whispering “I’m sorry, Mother,” and “_ please, _please don’t—“ into the disconnected line._

Tim wakes up in the back of a truck, strung up by his arms, swaying side to side as the vehicle moves. He’s still in the Robin uniform, but he’s missing his belt, cape, his boots, and his gloves.

There’s something over his eyes, some sort of blindfold, so he doesn’t know if the mask is still there or not. _Not that a lot of people would recognize Tim Drake anyway. But Bruce’ll be so mad if it’s gone._

He’s being held up on a hook by a pair of handcuffs. Every bump the truck goes over causes him to slam against the side of the vehicle and jolts him up and down, jarring his arms painfully.

His head is spinning too, and Tim wants to throw up from the dizziness. He wonders if Batman and Nightwing have made it out okay, if they got his signal, if they’ll be mad about this.

He fades in and out of consciousness for a while, jolting awake whenever the truck takes a turn hard. It’s freezing in the back of the truck and he can’t really feel his hands or feet anymore. This revelation makes him choke up, panic momentarily clouding his mind.

 _Get a grip,_ he chides himself angrily. _You need to get a grip. Take control of the situation._

Except…there is no way to get control of the situation. He can find no purchase for his feet, no way to loosen the cuffs, and no way for him to get the blindfold off. He’s got no idea where he is thanks to the bout of unconsciousness. And now he feels the truck slowing, and realizes that his time is up.

Tim realizes that perhaps he can break the cuffs if he exerts enough force on them. So he starts trying to jump up and down, jerking as hard as he can every time the truck jolts.

It’s incredibly painful and he soon has blood running down his arms from where the metal is cutting into his wrists. Then the truck stops, and he jerks frantically, panicking just a little…and the links snap apart, Tim falling hard from the sudden lack of resistance. He lands with a thud on the metal bed of the truck, winded.

There are noises from outside, and Tim moves as fast as he can, removing the blindfold—his mask is still on, thank God—and taking stock of his surroundings.

There’s nothing else in the bed of the truck. His equipment is not there, he realizes with a sinking heart. He’s unarmed.

The doors swing open and he jumps into a fighting stance. But he’s not that experienced at fighting yet, and he’s still disoriented from the blow to his head. It’s not long before he’s being dragged roughly and painfully out of the truck.

The man—Tim’s calling him “Lumpy” now, because of his weirdly shaped head—has Tim’s arms twisted and pinned to his back with one hand, and is gripping a handful of his hair tightly with the other.

They’re at the docks, Tim recognizes quickly, heart sinking. He’s over an hour away from where he’d been with Batman. He stumbles a little while distracted with the thought, and is jerked up roughly, painfully enough to make his eyes water. He officially hates Lumpy.

He’s dragged into a boathouse that’s so rotten and dilapidated that he’s worried about the stability of the floorboards, especially with all the weight on it now.

Besides Tim and Lumpy, there’s two _huge_ guys with guns—now known as Scarface and George— _what? He’s tired.—_ and a man who’s standing in the shadows, probably the guy in charge.

Tim debates making a sarcastic remark, but decides against that—he’s not the “funny” Robin. So he keeps quiet, breathing hard, trying to find a way out.

Then the man steps forward, and Tim’s heart sinks even further when he recognizes the man—Harvey Dent, also known as Two-Face. He’s been out of Arkham for a few months, and Batman had been concerned about his lack of activity. Tim’s really missing that inactivity right about now.

“Mr. Dent,” he says, hoping to talk his way out. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Two-Face ignores him, instead talking to Lumpy, and Tim is now worried for his own safety. It’s obvious that Dent’s having a bad spell—he’s not stable at the best of times, and he’s clearly not okay now. It’s in his voice—there’s an urgent, manic tone to it, one that immediately puts Tim on alert.

Lumpy suddenly jerks Tim’s head back so that his face is towards Harvey’s. He waits while the mad man looks him over with feverish, darting eyes. _Not good._

“What’s the Bat doing in my business?” the man asks suddenly, practically spitting the words out.

“Um…I don’t know—“ Tim starts to say, but he’s cut off by a fierce backhand to his face.

If Lumpy wasn’t holding on to him so tightly, his head would have snapped to the side from the force of it. His ear is ringing and his head feels like it’s on fire as it is.

“Do _not_ lie to me!” the man snarls. “You were there at the warehouse, with the Bat. And now you’re here. I want to know how you knew where to find my men. You want to tell me, because it would be very foolish if you did not.”

“B-but…” Tim starts to protest, then changes his mind. “I-I mean, he um, didn’t say. Didn’t tell me, I mean!”

He braces for the next blow, which comes swiftly. This one is to his stomach, and he’s winded again. Unfortunately, this proves to be bad news for his already churning stomach and he vomits violently, all over the floor and Harvey.

Honestly, he can’t blame the man for slapping him across the face again after that. He just wishes his head would stop spinning long enough for him to come up with a good explanation. But everything's jumbled and confused now, his head swimming from the blows.

His ears are ringing, and he can’t understand what’s being said. Suddenly, he’s being dragged across the room, out and towards the docks themselves. Tim realizes dimly that he’s probably about to die.

It’s only vaguely upsetting, really. He’s more worried about how Bruce and Dick will take it. He’s not worried about his parents—they’ll hardly notice his absence after a week or two.

He’s thrown to the ground hard, and Lumpy spins around quickly, startled by something. Tim’s still dizzy and he can’t seem to get his eyes to focus enough for him to make out what’s happening. He knows that he should get up, should try to escape, but his arms keep giving out under him.

There’s the sound of gun fire, and he jumps slightly, struggling to get to cover, to get away. And then he sees a dark shadow come in between him and the men, and he stops panicking—it’s Batman. He feels himself relax, because it’s Batman and that means he’ll be okay.

Then he sees somebody coming up behind Batman, and he tries to shout out a warning, but his voice is a weak croak and goes unheard. But then there’s another dark blur, and that man falls down and doesn’t move. _Nightwing._

He’s trying to track the motion, but he still can’t focus. Tim tries to sit up again, but this time, somebody catches him when his arms give way. There’s a voice in his ear and a hand roughly stroking his hair soothingly.

“It’s okay, Timmy. We got you. You’re okay.”

Tim sags back against him, nodding in relief. _That’s good,_ he thinks blearily. _I can’t do anything right now._ He lets himself relax, trusting that Bruce and Dick will make sure he gets back to the Cave safely.

_He’s about to be eleven, and he’s lost. Tim had started out early that evening, hoping to follow Batman and Robin, and maybe get some good pictures while he’s at it._

_But somehow he managed to get turned around and lost sight of his heroes. All he knows now is that he’s somewhere in the Narrows, late at night and completely alone. It’s not a good position to be in._

_Tim’s beginning to be worried—he’s been wandering for the past hour and nothing looks familiar. He knows that he’s a walking target—his clothes are a little too nice for the area, his camera is expensive and obvious, and he’s small and young and defenseless. He started taking karate lessons about two years ago, but he knows that he’s nowhere near being capable of fending off the predators in this area._

_He walks faster as it starts to rain. He’s cold and scared, but he can’t stop if he hopes to survive the experience. Tim walks faster still when he notices that two of the figures from a nearby alley have started to follow him._

_They seem to sense his fear, and speed up as well, speaking loudly so he’ll hear. They’re detailing exactly what they plan to do when they catch him, and it’s enough to make him break into a full-on sprint._

_Tim’s a small kid, and he’s fast, but the men have longer legs and more knowledge of the area. He’s almost certain that they’re trying to herd him into a trap of some kind, but he has no idea of where he’s going anyway. He just hopes that they’ll lose interest before they catch him._

_He rounds a corner, hard, and trips on the uneven, slick cement. Tim lands hard, knees and hands taking the brunt of it, and he can’t seem to get up and balanced enough to keep running. He lets out a desperate sob, crawling forward in a last-ditch effort to put more distance between himself and the men. He’s in a dead-in alley, cut off by the tall, chain-link fence at one end and the predators at the other. He looks around wildly, shouting for help._

_Tim knows that there’s no one to hear him here, and he’s seen enough violent acts in this area to know that even if there were, nobody would come to help. He’s probably miles from where Batman and Robin are, and there’s nothing left to do but scream and try to fight._

_He’s pretty sure that he’s going to die in this alley, which he actually finds to be sort of ironic—he’ll still have more people out here to find his body than he would at home._

_The men have caught up now, and they’re stalking forwards, probably trying to keep him from bolting and dodging around them. Honestly, if Tim thought he’d stand a chance, he’d try it. Instead, he presses his back up against the chain link fence and wonders if it’s possible to have a heart attack when you’re ten (or is he eleven now? It’s probably past midnight, which means it’s now officially his birthday)._

_That’s when Robin comes out of nowhere and lands on top of one of the men. Tim stands there and stares, mouth slightly open, eyes bugging out. His brain is having a sort of disconnect which he knows distantly is probably a sign of shock._

_He’s still staring blankly when the second man goes down and Robin trusses them both up. By that time, Batman’s showed up as well, and Tim’s brain has now gotten caught up on the fact that he’s just been saved by_ Batman and Robin _._

 _Both vigilantes are looking at him with similar expressions on their faces and Tim’s not sure what the look means…but it’s_ Batman and Robin, _so he hopes they’re not mad at him for being so much of a bother. He’s_ trying _to apologize and explain, but his voice isn’t working._

_Robin moves slowly until he’s standing close to Tim, then crouches down until he’s at eye level._

_“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now, okay? Are you hurt?”_

_Tim nods and tries to suck enough air in so he can say something, but he’s having a little trouble with that. He’s more choking than breathing, which seems to really bother Robin._

_The older boy’s been trying to calm him down by talking to him, but it’s not working. He looks over at Batman, communicating something with his eyes, and then he pulls Tim into a hug, rubbing slow, soothing circles on the boy’s back._

_He keeps holding Tim until the police show up, where he’s then handed over to a nice officer, who lets him ride up front and turn on the sirens (he thinks that’s cool, if a little childish). He makes some excuses up—he got lost coming home from a friend’s house, he’s sorry about the trouble, honestly, and can he just go home now?_

_They let him leave, and he makes sure to intercept any phone calls or other communications from the police and child services, because he’s certain that his parents will be furious with the interruption, and he needs them to not be mad over something stupid like this._

The first thing Tim notices when he wakes up is that he’s actually warm and comfortable—normally, he wakes up in weird places and it’s normally not so comfortable or warm in most of them. He looks around and figures out that he’s in one of the spare bedrooms in Wayne Manor.

He also sees that Dick’s crashed out on a chair near the bed, snoring slightly. Tim reaches over and shoves the man’s legs off the bed where they were resting. He winces slightly at the throbbing that is blossoming in his head—it’s so worth it though when Dick actually _falls off the chair_ from jerking awake.

Tim snickers at the expression on Dick’s face, scooting up into a sitting position.

“Hey. Did you guys get Dent?” he asks, suddenly concerned—what if he messed up and distracted them and Dent got away?

Dick looks at him like he’s concerned for Tim’s sanity, but answers anyway.

“We got him alright. He’s gonna go to some mental institute Bruce found. Apparently, they specialize in cases like his.” He shrugs. “How’s your head there, kiddo?”

Tim winces in response and Dick laughs sympathetically before handing him a glass of water and some painkillers. He takes them gratefully, gulping down most of the cup to boot. Then he hands the cup back.

“Thanks. Do I have to stay here?”

“Got somewhere else to be?” Dick says sarcastically. “No, you don’t _‘have_ to stay here’. Alfred just said that you’re not allowed to do any case work…or schoolwork—we _all_ know you’re ahead anyway, and you need to be ‘monitored’ for the next twelve hours or so, since we’re all pretty much convinced that it’s just a complete fluke that your skull isn’t completely fractured right now.”

“So…I _can_ get up?” Tim clarifies, already moving to do so.

Dick nods and offers a hand to help him keep from falling over when he gets a head rush.

“Okay, so, since I’m the one babysitting you for the next four hours or so,” Dick says, following Tim into the hall. “Can I decide what we’re gonna do now?”

Tim shrugs.

“Cool. Do you have a _real_ argument against sitting around, watching movies? ‘Cuz honestly? I’m pretty much wiped out and so are you.”

Tim agrees and they go and get settled on the couch. Dick mutters something about grabbing a snack and leaves the room, telling Tim to find something he’ll actually watch _without_ complaining about the plot.

Since Dick’s just given the vaguest instructions ever, Tim picks out _The Wrath of Khan,_ mostly because he can have a good time listening to Dick whining about how boring it is _and_ he’s got a few choice comparisons regarding the mullet Dick had until about a month ago and how much it looked like Khan’s hair.

He’s so focused on that that he’s caught completely off-guard when Dick and Alfred come into the room, singing _Happy Birthday._ Alfred is carrying a cake and Dick’s got his “I didn’t _do_ anything, don’t freak out” grin.

Tim’s wondering if it’s actually possible that Dick drugged him enough that he’s hallucinating. The men reach the end of the song, and after a second, Dick flops down on the couch next to Tim and jabs him in the arm.

“You’re supposed to blow out the candles, dork.” He says, nodding towards the proffered cake. “We can’t open presents _or_ watch that godawful movie until you do, you know?”

 _He’s fourteen tonight, and he’s happy. Actually, he’s so happy that he feels like his face is going to be sore tomorrow from all the smiling he’s done. Tim’s slouching on the couch, using Dick’s shoulder as a pillow (not the comfiest thing, but he’s not complaining), and watching one of his favorite movies. He’s probably eaten a little too much cake, but Alfred’s baking is amazing, and Dick_ and _Alfred said he could have as much as he wanted._

 _Bruce showed up while they were eating cake, and joined them. Tim’s still not sure if he’s more surprised by that or by the fact that he got, like,_ four _presents (Barbara sent her love and wished she could have attended)_ and _they were wrapped and everything._

 _He’s not sure why both Bruce and Dick kept apologizing for there not being more gifts and his friends not being there. It’s the best birthday he’s ever had._ _He relaxes against his brother, listening to Bruce making occasional comments on the movie (normally when Dick starts complaining about it) and Tim’s pretty sure it’s the happiest he’s_ ever _been on his birthday._

_Eventually, he falls asleep and is carried up to bed, a smile still on his face. It's his best birthday ever.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always found the relationship between Two-Face and Batman really interesting. I mean, Bruce and Harvey were friends, and it's so obvious that Bruce still cares about the guy, even though he's tried to kill a lot of people, including Robin and Batman. It's also pretty obvious that a lot of Dent's problems come from his insanity--he's totally lucid sometimes, and then not so much at others. So I feel like maybe Batman always tries to go easy on him and get him help, because he really wants to help Harvey get better. Just my two-cents worth.  
> Okay, so two chapters weren't really necessary since it's such a short story. But it made me happy for some reason, so there you go.

**Author's Note:**

> It's only a few days late, which is actually really good based on my record. Heck, I normally don't get birthday gifts or cards to people in the "real world" until WAY later. My current record is ten months, but I DID get the present to them. So I'm doing real well, okay?


End file.
